Silly Little Songs
by thatsrightdollface
Summary: Roderich is stuck with a failing relationship, a stubborn streak the size of Europe and a really annoying companion in detention every day. Gilbert got him into this mess - though of course he's not telling how or why, or even necessarily admitting any fault whatsoever. Originally posted on AO3. For SearchingForMercury.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Roderich had never been so humiliated in his entire life, that was certain, and it was high time the classmate responsible learned a bit of shame. It was too much to wish for, of course. There they were, crammed together in a stuffy basement room, the carpet a putrid blend of vomit-stain brown and rust, no windows, no ceiling fan, only their warden for company. There they were for hours after school, bound every day for the next four weeks, future punishments pending. The school was still busy gathering information about their crime, but the fact that some details remained a bit fuzzy couldn't change the fact that they were shamed. Shamed in the eyes of their teachers and their parents.

Gilbert couldn't be less bothered.

"Hey, Roddy, check it – I drew something _awesome_ on the back of my test, and the teacher didn't even notice! Pfffffft!"

"She probably noticed and just had nothing to say." Roderich snuck a quick glance at the so-called "awesome" doodle – Gilbert couldn't draw, and whatever was on the back of that crumpled-up quiz was possibly a gigantic, livable tank, possibly some kind of air-battleship. It was manned by far too many stick figures, and it looked like a lot of thought had been put into it for some inane reason. Each little scribble-man had a specific task – some were labeled, given lists of functions. Roderich turned back to his book. It was a biography. Chopin. Roderich didn't expect Gilbert to ask about the book, let alone fathom its appeal. Lord, he'd been such a dunce going along with Gilbert's plan to begin with. Lizzie didn't know the whole story, but it was only a matter of time.

"What the hell, Roderich?" she'd smiled, uncertain. "People are saying you helped Gilbert change student records, or something."

"People? What kind of people?" he had burst out like an idiot. Always playing the fool, wasn't he? And now he was here; Gilbert's hair looked like he'd just rolled out of bed and ruffled it a bit this morning, and he was wearing one of those black and white checkerboard belts Roderich imagined "scene" or "Goth" or "hipster" kids picked up from Hot Topic. Gilbert's skin was pale enough that royal blue veins showed through by one of his temples, and his ears stuck out a bit. He needed to stop smiling. Immediately. Roderich was in no mood for nonsense.

At the front of the classroom, their warden – the English lit teacher Ms. Kirkland – thumbed through a Gothic horror anthology and giggled to herself. She was kind of an odd one, with strawberry-blonde pigtails and a face made up mostly of freckles. She had her headphones in, too, hooked into a battered iPhone that looked like it had taken a hundred or so tumbles from the top of the school. According to legend, Ms. Kirkland had once snuck some of the English honors students up onto the roof for a congratulatory picnic. She wasn't listening.

"Leave me alone or I swear I'll tell them how things really happened. Your brother should be here –"

"Shh – shut up! Not so loud!" Gilbert's whole body twitched forward as though jerking along with an electric shock; his head rocked toward Ms. Kirkland so quickly Roderich could've sworn he heard bones crack. "Luddy – Ludwig doesn't need to be a part of this. I swear, four week's detention is nothing. You think I haven't seen worse? We're damn lucky!"

"I'm not surprised that _you've_ seen worse. I, however, have never had detention in my life, and... Let's just sit here, alright?" Roderich wanted to bury his face in his arms; he'd worn a deep navy sweater with tears up the sleeves that he just didn't have the heart to throw out. It smelled like his house, with all the fragrant candles and wood furniture polished to shine. It smelled like a safe place where only the mirrors along the wall watched you and you didn't _have_ to talk to anybody. It was sort of like rich, hot comfort food reincarnated in sweater form.

"What do you think Alice is listening to?" When Gilbert smiled, Roderich always thought he looked kind of like a Disney villain about to begin in on his evil scheme monologue.

"Who?"

"Ms. Kirkland. I think she's probably listening to show tunes, like _Sweeney Todd_ or _Mary Poppins _or something else equally British. Or maybe Ke$ha. Maybe death metal. Do you like death metal?"

Roderich ground his fingers into his eyes, pressing so deeply he could see spurts of angry red against his eyelids. "I'm missing weeks' worth of piano lessons because of this, and it will, of course, take weeks to recover the lost time. So, if you don't mind…" He was already able to pour his emotions into the pieces he'd learned; his teacher said he emoted better through the keys than his voice, which was possibly a somewhat backhanded compliment. Roderich didn't care. They were juniors now, and his technique could always, _must_ always improve. His repertoire had to expand. Soon he'd be putting his playing up against who knows how many other people's, because if he went to a fancy music school that'd be just another step towards the concert hall.

Imagining himself in an orchestra or performing as part of a musical theater ensemble was fine, but Roderich could see himself crossing that stage solo, wearing a modest tux, eyes downcast. Dust would shiver in the spotlight. The crowd would be hushed, so still he'd be able to hear individual dresses rustle. He could imagine himself playing, just his piano, his truest voice, and all those waiting ears. He could communicate so much – he could _be_ so much. At the very least, he could surely be more than a bitter old music teacher, coaching squirming, snot-nosed brats just learning to toot into recorders and make triangles go "ding."

"God, I thought you must play _something_ like the piano! Violin, flute, I dunno, one of those flouncy instruments." Gilbert often sounded like he was patting himself on the back. Here, he thumped Roderich's shoulder; his hands were remarkably small and delicately shaped, up close. It was only now that Roderich noticed his clean fingernails.

"Well, congratulations, I guess. I do."

Gilbert didn't even miss a beat before demanding, "Teach me. We've got four weeks. That's enough time. I'm awesome at picking things up fast. I bet I could catch up to you!" His folders and such were actually arranged very neatly in his backpack, Roderich saw. Perhaps he was a fairly tidy person after all, despite all the unnecessary buckles on his boots. Roderich tried to think back – had he ever known Gilbert to fail a test?

"How would I teach you? We're locked in a windowless, soulless, piano-less room."

That was when Ms. Kirkland – Alice? – with the huge doe eyes and little-girly voice tapped at her iPhone and exclaimed – "And how are _you_ today, Mr. Blue Sky?"

Gilbert and Roderich both stared at her a moment, and then glanced at each other, not quite in sync but close enough that for a moment they were almost on the same page. Roderich wet his lips and whispered, "What...?" He was thinking of the masked, ancient gods in the books Ms. Kirkland taught, thinking of the white-clad maidens who end up soaked in someone else's blood. He was thinking of how she collapsed in dizzy fits of laughter in the classroom when she talked about how all those oysters get eaten up in the Lewis Carroll poem, those dear trusting little idiots, led to a quick and convenient demise, how she asked silly riddles and clearly liked it best when nobody knew the answer. She'd crinkle up her eyes and tap her chin, tell them to remember the rhyme so they could trick someone else.

"Doing pretty well, Ma'am, and yourself?" Gilbert said. He nodded, cocky, and Ms. Kirkland giggled again. Roderich could trace her line of sight to well over their heads, dangling about where the brick wall was consumed by plaster ceiling.

She tittered, "Yes, yes, I'll be back in time for the movie. I'll pick up pizza if you're a good boy and stop pestering me about it!

Gilbert met Roderich's gaze and snickered. His eyes were usually kind of manic, for lack of a better word, but now for some reason the intensity on his face was almost hilarious. They laughed, Gilbert brazen and coarse, Roderich in a throaty, relieved chuckle. This teacher would be here every day, after all, same as them. She'd be making her way through books, perhaps texting, perhaps just lulling them into a false sense of security so she could piece together the rest of their crime. For just a moment, Roderich felt a sliver of regret surface inside him – suppose she had heard about Ludwig escaping punishment? Suppose she deemed that little morsel something worth looking into? You never know.

Gilbert had come to detention himself without any struggle, but for some reason the idea of Ludwig facing the music seemed to get him all shivery, made him slam on the breaks. His little brother was a sophomore, and a huge one at that. The football team simply wouldn't leave him alone he was so big and tough, but Gilbert still kind of babied him, it seemed. Ludwig was blonde and clean-cut; he had piercing blue eyes, somewhat shy and guarded to match his brother's crazed red ones, darting all over the place. Red eyes, yes. Roderich had assumed they were contacts at first, something intended to be edgy or hip or what have you, but apparently Gilbert was albino, at least according to him. Roderich still sometimes looked for the telltale outline of lenses along his irises, but no such luck as of yet.

He thought about apologizing for decrying Ludwig so loudly, perhaps, or maybe just for inspiring Gilbert's panic. He didn't, of course. There were other issues at hand, and anyway... It was quite plain that if he were to give the guy an inch, he'd take the whole continent. Kindness to someone like that could easily get out of hand.

"Mr. Blue Sky is her husband, I guess?" Roderich said, instead.

Gilbert was still snickering – he hissed out, "Holy shit," –and their literature professor was still talking. Now she rolled her eyes and twirled one of her long pigtails around in her hand.

"Al, stop it! Stop it! I'm in detention – I'm watching those boys, the ones that cracked the – I love you, too, Al. Good bye. Go away. Get _yourself_ ready for your bloody movie!"

"Al," Roderich whispered, wrinkling his nose.

"Huh. I wonder if it bothers him that she talks about dismembering babies and the different effects of poisons in class."

"Love is patient; love is kind." Roderich grinned, but Gilbert just shrugged; his hoodie had stripes up the arms and a slogan on the back that didn't make any sense. Perhaps it would mean something witty or fun to people in the know, but Gilbert was often alone on campus. Like Roderich, actually. Maybe there were people who got his jokes and references around here, but then again, maybe not. Could be it was only Ludwig.

Now, when he'd be willing to talk, _now_ was when they sat in silence. Roderich returned to his book, smoothing down the pages, imagining himself whisked back in time to the age nestled inside, or some other, _any_ other period that would be somehow better_. _ Roderich imagined he would've fit in far easier had he been born ages past, before cellphones and skinny jeans, back when classical music was still thought revolutionary, still intended for mass consumption. Back when people said Sir and Ma'am all the time, when it was normal to be a little formal and standoffish, concerned what to say. Gilbert took out a notebook and scribbled; his broad strokes squeaked against the paper. Roderich tried not to wonder what he was drawing. Sometimes Gilbert counted to himself, and sometimes it seemed like he was trying to turn the whole sheet of notebook paper a glossy pencil-stroke grey.

Finally, he announced, "There! Look – my plan is pretty much perfect, right?" Gilbert's voice was too loud after a period of near-silence; it was like a splatter of ice water down Roderich's back. He winced and turned to face him and his pretty much perfect plan.

"You drew a keyboard. Does it even have the right amount of keys?"

"Obviously I drew a keyboard. Now, show me middle C. Then you can teach me songs."


	2. Chapter 1

Roderich told everyone that his earliest memory was himself along a grey pebble-beach, the water nibbling at his feet and the sky like a thick canopy leaning in too close to the earth. He didn't really remember all that; he knew his feet had been numb, and even though the sky was grey and the ground and water were greyer still there had still been a kind of glare all around. He knew he had been chasing a dog; not his dog, mind, but just one that happened to be on the beach. He wanted to touch its dirty back, but it didn't seem to care much for him. It yipped, it darted away. So Roderich could already walk in the memory, he said. He'd end the story there, but his mother wouldn't – she'd go on about how he'd been so frustrated, so adorably frustrated. He'd yelled at the dog, and everyone cooed. They had pictures in some photo album or another, surely. Roderich's mother probably had a thousand pictures of him saved on the computer.

He liked to look kind of pensive when he told people about memories, recalling how things had been when he first played a song on the piano or when he'd first realized he had a chance with Lizzie, the girl he'd thought he was going to marry. It made everything feel important, like because he had been proud perched on that stool in the music store it meant he was destined to be great. Like because Lizzie had leaned in to him, not anyone else, and whispered, "I forgot to bring my book today," it meant he had been destined to scoot his text between them so they could read together. Their shoulders were meant to brush. She would roll her eyes when he talked about it. Or, she used to. He wasn't sure what she'd do nowadays.

Lizzie. Her real name was Elizabeta, which Roderich would use every day if she let him. No, she wanted to be Lizzie. She used to tell him he was so steady for her, so patient, and such a classy guy. Roderich had big dreams; he would be a famous musician, of course, and she would be a leader, a fighter. They would both be somebody. It wasn't really that she didn't say that sort of thing anymore. It was that they were sitting here together outside the school and he could barely feel her hand in his.

He squeezed harder and she said, "Geez – you're hurting me." She smiled, and Roderich resisted the urge to smooth back her flyaway bangs. They were reading together, waiting for her mom's Prius, waiting for another session in the detention-room dungeon with a Wiccan English teacher and Gilbert. Lizzie and Gilbert had been friends in elementary school; they'd stuck gum on the underside of Roderich's desk. They'd called him Miss Priss, and when he'd said it didn't make sense because Lizzie _really_ was a girl they'd just laughed and said he didn't get the joke.

"I could take you to get dinner tomorrow," Roderich said. He'd tucked his scarf into his coat three times in the mirror that morning, making sure he knew how to do it like elegant guys in European television shows. "I could borrow the car." Lizzie had asked him out that past September, in the school hallway right by the band room. She'd been blunt, without the slightest whiff of romance. She'd just said, "Hey, go to the dance with me?" and the best part was that it hadn't even been a Sadie Hawkins affair. That had been the first and only time Roderich had seen her wear a dress, and now it was October and their breath made the air go fuzzy around their faces. "We could go somewhere nice."

"We never go anywhere nice. What's up with you? Going to crack open the piggybank for me _now_?" She sort of smirked on the "now," like it was a while after he should've, or maybe like it was just a funny time to crack anything open at all. It was the kind of face she made when joke-scolding the little kids she babysat. It was cute, but Roderich hated having to read her expressions, hunt out little nuances and implications. He wanted to sit her down and play a bunch of piano pieces for her, tell her "Pick the one that's like your mood." Maybe then, if he understood her, he'd know when a smile was just a smile vs. when it was a hint.

"I don't have a piggybank anymore. If you must know, I have a stack of jars in my closet."

Once upon a time that would have inspired at least an embarrassed chuckle, but now she licked her lips, eyes darting to the road, to the rows of cars caked in week-old snow slumped in the parking lot. Their windshields were mostly dirty, but they still managed to catch the sun. "Seriously, what's with you lately? We're here because you have detention."

"You've had detention before." Angry heat surged to Roderich's cheeks. She didn't have to sound like she was saying he had a disease. She didn't have to arch her eyebrows like that, like she was laughing, going "What the hell?" again. She thought she knew everything he said, exactly what he did every day, all the little things that made him the steady, classy guy she knew. He wanted to be that guy, he did. If he could be that guy and they could be happy forever, that's really all he would have needed.

Lizzie rested her chin on her hand, watching him. She was wearing some sports team's hoodie, and there were flower barrettes in her hair. She'd taken to putting on makeup, just recently. It wasn't a lot, but there it was in the flush of her cheeks. "For talking in class," she said. "I've gotten detention twice, for talking. And punching Ivan. What did you even _do_?"

"I…" Roderich thought about spilling himself out to her, stupid secrets splashing over the sidewalk and the brownish grass their school usually gave up on around this time of year. He imagined her holding him to her, his face nestled against her neck, her breaths calm, in and out, her hand rubbing up and down his back almost roughly, too tenderly to be gentle or sweet. He thought of her going, "Poor baby," in the sarcastic way she had. The thought made his eyes sting, but only a little. By the time he thought of the words he would've said next she was back into her book. She was reading a biology textbook with furrowed eyebrows.

"Please let me take you out tomorrow," Roderich said.

"Yeah," she answered. She didn't look up. Roderich remembered the way his mother mimicked him fuming at that errant dog on the long-ago beach, the way she stomped her foot and said he was never very good at being told "No." She'd probably had to distract him with collecting pebbles or singing together or something like that. Apparently he'd asked her days later why the doggy hadn't liked him.

When Lizzie's mother showed up, she stood quickly. She said she loved him, and he said he loved her, too. He wanted her to kiss him, but realized too late that he should have stood up to kiss her, instead. He'd almost finished Chopin's biography. Lizzie often called him "pretentious" like it was a compliment, but when she was gone he felt kind of silly, and suddenly really cold.

He went into detention early. Alice – Ms. Kirkland? – was already there, with her feet propped on the desk and the book _Good Omens _(by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, apparently) balanced precariously on her knees. She was wearing slippers and holding an old-fashioned tin of rainbow taffies. She offered them to Roderich as he passed by to get to his desk, just a lazy flick of her wrist and, "Evening, Delinquent Number One." His hands still burned from the cold, but when he accidentally took two of the stupidly bright candies she didn't say a word. He plopped himself down and reread the same page of his biography a couple times before Gilbert came in. He paused by Alice's desk for what must have been a full three minutes combing through the candies to choose just the right colors. He ended up taking a full handful, which he spread out on his desk and started arranging in little patterns. Gilbert's arms had ballpoint pen tattoos all up them today – it looked like he had scribbled a map on his skin.

"So today was pretty much horrible," he beamed, shrugging. He was fidgeting constantly, Roderich noticed, scooting candies around his desk, glancing at the dirty wall over his shoulder, tapping his foot into the carpet. "My partner in world history was MIA, a no-show, and I had to adlib a shit ton of our presentation." Roderich's eyes flicked over to Alice when the idiot said "shit," but either she didn't hear or she didn't care. She was chewing. "I think I kicked butt on my own, though. I mean… What else could I have done? Didn't leave me much choice."

"Oh," said Roderich. He didn't even try to summon feeling into his voice. "Naturally."

Alice shifted; her chair creaked. She announced, "We don't think any of the fakety-fake scores you guys entered were from world history class, so you were probably just fine." She sounded sleepy and cross today, like a cat you've just pried off your lap and put on the floor. "Of course, most of the grades you lot changed _had_ to be from my class, right? That's why I'm involved, now." Ms. Kirkland's classes were notoriously difficult – she was a rough grader who apparently expected her students to read at the speed of lightning. Roderich knew from personal experience that she didn't believe in extra credit, but he usually managed to scrape Bs in her classes. Until recently, he'd considered himself accomplished.

"So you're here to show people you're extra angry at us?" Gilbert asked.

"What else could be done? You didn't leave me much choice." Alice grinned wickedly over her knees and flipped to the next page in her novel.

Gilbert laughed, and in that moment Roderich realized what a great conman he could've been in another life. Too crazy optimistic for his own good, and of course there were still no traces of shame anywhere. He looked amused, nothing more. It's as though her taunts didn't even register. "And here I thought you'd signed up to be our detention warden because we're your favorite students."

"No need to feel so special. I've got a name to protect, too."

"I didn't know about any changed grades, Ma'am," Roderich said. Even as he spoke he knew his voice was coming out sort of whiny, wheedling. He wished he could retry, give the line another few goes the same way he'd practiced tying his scarf before coming to school. Like he could play and replay piano pieces until he got the feel just right, captured just the impression he'd meant to convey from the very beginning. Gilbert's smug little smile was back, and Roderich had the feeling he'd be looking at for the next few hours. He felt sick.

Alice shot him a look and said, "Watch it." She unwrapped another taffy and went back to reading. Her slippers had pale yellow flowers on them – they looked like something a kindly old grandma might waddle around in.

Roderich waited a minute, watching Gilbert shuffle candies around. He got bored pretty fast and shoved them in his backpack. How sweet, all his folders were labeled. He was a studious idiot. There was "World History," and, oh yes, Alice's British literature course. Roderich watched her for a moment, but she seemed utterly wrapped up in her own business so he hissed, "Gilbert, do you know anything about changed grades?" He wanted that smile to flicker; he wanted an explanation, he wanted to be walking home, or preparing for the Piano Guild competition later on this year so he could blow the judges out of the water, or even eating dinner with his parents. He wanted to explain the truth, make everything plain as day so he could sit back and watch the inevitable unfold, but that felt a little too much like waltzing off a cliff for his liking.

Probably there was a stupid part of Roderich's brain that still believed they could get out of this easily. The detention period would pass; there wouldn't be enough information collected to really lay blame fairly any which way. He and Gilbert claimed it had been a system error, and who knows? The school was incompetent and slow. Roderich could still graduate with honors. The suspicion might never fade, but they were innocent until proven guilty, right? Maybe Roderich was just as bad as Gilbert, in the end, optimistic and blind, selfish and dumb. At least he wasn't the one who had just pulled out a piece of paper with a scribbly piano drawn on it.

"You forgot you were teaching me how to play, didn't you?" Gilbert said. He waggled his finger. "Thankfully, I have a great memory. Great head for dates, too – seriously, ask me about my world history presentation. Sneak preview – it was about the best king ever."

"I'm not going to teach you to play the piano on a piece of paper. I should have never agreed to that."

"Freddie the Great. Frederick. That's who I presented on – this guy was all kinds of awesome. Also people put potatoes on his grave in tribute, because he got Prussians to start eating them way back –" Gilbert talked with his hands when he got really excited about some strange thing or another – he mimed putting potatoes on some imaginary grave. He mimed eating said spuds with a fork. He swung a sword, presumably at encroaching enemy forces. In a way, it reminded Roderich of Lizzie's enthusiastic sports stories, the kind of tales that wouldn't usually usher him in. He didn't care a whit who won the Super Bowl, but the game became almost charming when he saw her light up talking about it.

How many action movies had been described to him with dramatic, sweeping arm movements, her eyes ablaze with this same kind of intensity? Really, Roderich couldn't bring himself to care too much about most stories, but it was always kind of different when he came along for the ride with someone else. If he let himself, he knew he could really care about Gilbert's old dead king so-and-so. Not that he could let that happen. Going along for the ride with Gilbert was totally different than letting Lizzie share with him, right?

"Listen, I don't want to deal with this right now."

"Then teach me a song." Maybe Gilbert looked a little crestfallen, but not in the right way. Not in the guilty, repentant sort of way Roderich had been hoping for. He'd started doodling on his wrist again, and Roderich made a point of refusing to look at the squiggly paths he drew. He could humor him again just to shut him up; that sounded fair enough. Roderich still needed to decide where he'd be booking reservations for the next night, for this second chance to see Lizzie in a dress. His Lizzie, with tangles in her hair and Band-Aids up her legs. He was thinking somewhere really classy. He could afford it – spending money felt like giving away little pieces of his own personal solidity, after all, just like losing something or leaving it behind usually felt like he'd misplaced a bit of himself. Too personal, almost frightening. His things needed to be kept close lest he feel exposed. Lizzie said it wasn't healthy to get so attached to material possessions. In the end, it just meant he had a lot of _things_, a lot of money stuffed in his closet or shipped away to the bank to wait for him.

"Any song will do?"

Gilbert slipped his pen back into his bag and turned to face Roderich, hands folded together on the table like a parody of the perfect student. The circles under his eyes were darker today; Roderich wondered if that was why his voice sometimes felt a little too strained, a little too wild. Maybe that was just Gilbert, or perhaps he was shambling around perpetually sleep deprived. Apparently he was some kind of avid gamer, fiddling away with computers and that sort of nonsense. He smiled, though, and Roderich loathed the cuddly, patronizing tone of his voice. "Anything your little heart desires," he said, and the words felt kind of like a verbal pat on the head.

Roderich dragged the sheet of paper over to him and found the right three keys. "This is 'Hot-Crossed Buns,'" he said. "The easiest song I know. It's sung by babies all over the country; see, there are only these three notes. It goes like this." Roderich swept his fingers over the make-believe keys, and then scooted the paper back to Gilbert. The clock on the wall seemed to thud rather than tick, and Alice tsk-ed to herself.

Gilbert shook his head, still flaunting that horrible grin, still somehow alive with light and energy despite the time, despite the bleak room, despite the fact that they'd probably be walking out to dusk and snow. He presented the paper back to Roderich with a little flourish of his hand. "Now you've got to sing it, so I can hear the notes."

"That's absurd."

Gilbert was putting on a show, clearly just overreacting for comedy's sake. Surely. He swept his hands around, raised his voice in an accusation, like he was overwhelmed by emotion. Maybe he was trying to make Roderich laugh, but that certainly wasn't about to happen. Roderich chewed the inside of his cheek and waited for him to finish up. "What's absurd is a piano without sound! What's absurd is a room without windows – right, Alice?"

"Ms. Kirkland." Here, Roderich dared a glance at their warden. She hadn't even peeked up, and was stretching a piece of taffy out between her fingers in cheerful, gooey ribbons.

"What's absurd is thinking I can play the song without knowing how it's going to sound. Ridiculous. You've got to _sing_."

"Surely you know 'Hot-Crossed Buns.'"

"C'mon, Roddy. You have such a pretty voice." Roddy was a horrible nickname; Gilbert and Lizzie had used it for him off and on since childhood, but it was still horrible. At first Roderich had tried to wean his girlfriend off it and onto something a bit classier, like, you know, his actual name. He'd been met with little luck. Now, he just glowered and sang, like a funeral dirge:

"Hot-crossed buns, hot-crossed buns. One a penny, two a penny, hot-crossed buns."

"That's all?"

"What were you expecting? Now play that a million times. I think I'm going to sleep."

"You should teach me something else, too. Something actually challenging – don't think I didn't get the comment about this being a song for babies. You're an asshole, Roddy." For someone accusing him of being an asshole, Gilbert sounded remarkably tickled. He reached over and ruffled Roderich's hair, and for a moment he thought he was going to smooth down the wild strands that just didn't like to sit still. He hesitated just that moment, and then swatted Gilbert's hand away. The damage had already been done. Surely he was blushing a deep, flattering red, and was his English teacher _really_ laughing at him?

He decided to call up a fancy-shmancy French place when he got home; he'd steel himself (he hated talking on the phone) and speak smoothly, carefully, like the kind of person who knew what he was up to. He'd book a table for after his detention. Just thinking that line felt kind of corny and unfamiliar, like wearing someone else's embarrassing old ratty t-shirt.

For a while he didn't really sleep; he listened to Gilbert chat with Alice and then babble on to himself when she lost interest and stopped answering. Gilbert was like a child, he decided, just so stupidly fond of things, of himself, of this little life he led. Alice asked where he'd want to go to college, and Gilbert answered "Prussia." Of course, Prussia was no longer a country, and Roderich secretly seethed when Alice just said, "Hm." He asked Alice's hobbies and she told him about making doilies like spider webs and forcing her husband to take a ballroom dancing class with her. Gilbert told her about raising tiny yellow birds that left seeds and poop smears all over his patio but sang like god's little feathery choir. When Roderich finally drifted off, it was to the image of Gilbert covered in cooing yellow birdlings, teensy bundles of yellow fluff that hardly looked real. Cartoon birdies. The weird kid with the crazy grin was covered in cartoon birdies.

Roderich dreamt of many things. Among them: the sea, Lizzie slowly turning into a glass doll and his whole family being lost in a maze of orange trees. There was musical accompaniment, as always, and it was a teetering sort of song. It felt like a tightrope walker, or perhaps that one foolish tourist creeping too close to the edge of the cliff. He woke to Alice tapping him on the head with her book.

"Time to get going, while we've still got a little sun."

"Wh-"

"Get up." Roderich kneaded chapped, worn-red knuckles into his eyes until the glaze of sleep cleared. His teacher was standing in front of him with a hand on her hip. She was wearing her hair in a long fishtail braid that day, he noticed, with a big pink ribbon at the tip. Gilbert was gone, the piece of piano-paper with him. Everything felt very still.

"Ms. Kirkland. Sorry." Roderich bundled up his things and tied his scarf carefully, deftly. He'd had enough practice. They left the room together; there were still a few stragglers around the school, but everything was winding down, petering out. Soon, the lights would click off and someone, some unknown hero, would lock the doors. Roderich felt enormous, walking beside Alice. She barely came up to his shoulder.

"Just so you know, Delinquent Number Two sang that horrible song for at least twenty minutes after we knew you were asleep," Alice said.

"Did he really?"

"I dunno." The cold hit them like a tangible thing, like they'd just strolled into a glass door. Alice had a little fur coat on, and she clutched it to her like a teddy bear. She said, "Is your car out here?"

"I'm walking today."

"Your scarf's sticking out funny."

Roderich smoothed down the scarf, craning his neck just a bit to catch his reflection in the glossy black glass school door. He looked gangly, sort of hunched into the wind. This wasn't the person he'd wanted to be. This wasn't right, somehow. He knew exactly where things had gone wrong, but there wasn't much to do about it, now. Before he could help it, the words were trickling out of his mouth like he had become a leaky faucet. He shrugged. He offered his hands, palms up, and they stung in the cold. He caught a few snowflakes. "I'm sorry if I said anything – ah – weird, in there… I'm not, like, trying to cover anything up. You know."

It was stupid. A rookie mistake. It was just that seeing himself there – this strange, skinny boy teachers couldn't trust, this heartsick romantic clinging to the girl of his dreams, this _child_ who had paid in advance for piano lessons he couldn't attend… This wasn't him. If he could explain these feelings to Alice, if she could _believe_ him, everything would be so simple.

"Do I?" Alice said. She clearly wanted to leave. There was a car with its lights blazing through the frost-stained air. That was probably her ride.

"I'm sorry, that came out wrong."

"It certainly did. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Ms. Kirkland."

She left, and Roderich went home. He called up the French restaurant and made a reservation for eight –a respectable, adult time to take a lady out to eat. Then he checked the home phone's messages, because his cell phone was uncharged and festering in the bottom drawer of his desk. He wasn't the kind of guy who liked being able to tote a phone around with him, forever reachable, never alone. There were three messages.

One was from his mother's hair salon; she had an appointment. Another was from his father, who would be late again, and the last one was from Lizzie.

She had said, "Hi, Roddy? Roderich, or Roderich's parents," and she laughed. He grinned into the receiver. "Just calling to let you know we may have to cancel our dinner plans. Call me, or come see me… I don't care. This is important." Roderich waited for her to say, "I love you," or maybe make kissy noises into the phone like she did just a few months back, jokey and saccharine and warm. Nothing came. He hung up the phone and leaned back against the counter; he tapped a little rhythm to himself and studied seashells on the mantle, the cuckoo clock over the sofa, the row of unlit candles on the windowsill. He breathed very deep and very slow. Then, he picked up the phone again and dialed her number.


End file.
